The Coda of Relationships
by BookishTea
Summary: A series of one-shots dedicated to Harley Quinn, and all of the insanity connected.
1. Sailing Away On Red & Green

Another plan went up in smoke, leaving Harley Quinn to not only pick up the pieces, but herself with them.

She had only wanted to impress her puddin', and so she spent countless nights pondering on the perfect way to do so.

It came to her on a particular Wednesday afternoon, while she scrubbed blood stains out of Mistah' J's suit. Some rare diamond was lent to Gotham's Natural Science Museum for an exhibit, and had captured the attention of every criminal in the city for being not only extremely rare, but beautiful as well.

What interested Harley so much in the gem, was its inherent colour. Unlike common diamonds found in the local jewelry store, this diamond was a vivid green.

She was sure that the Joker would be thrilled, and extremely pleased with her. After all, it was the exact shade of his eyes.

And with that, it was fairly easy to answer fate's call. While Joker and the rest of the gang were peacefully sleeping, Harley snuck off into the night.

Donned in her costume, it didn't take long for her to break into the museum. The one or two night guards weren't an issue at all, and after a swing of her mallet, they were contently sleeping.

However, she wasn't aware that another villain had a similar thought, and already had her polished claws on _her_ jewel. Luckily she caught Catwoman by surprise, and the pair fought until B-man intervened. Which wasn't totally fair, since it was obvious he had a soft spot for the feline.

While the lovers bickered, she swiped the diamond and headed straight home.

Soon she realized she shouldn't have done this, as the masked hero was hot on her heels. And she had just led him to Joker's private nook.

 _"I'm sorry, Mistah J! I had no idea!" She had whimpered, pulling on her pig-tails. The burning of her scalp did little to sate the Joker's increasing rage, his teeth bared with a snarl._

 _"You never do!" He growled, the red of his lips peeled back and utterly intimidating. He had lost that sleepy look when Harley had barrelled inside, confusion quickly swept under the rug._

 _"You've led Batman straight to us!"_

 _Harley flinched, backing away when he stalked towards her. Desperately she fumbled with the purse hanging off of her shoulder, taking out the sparkling diamond with trembling hands. "B-but look puddin', I got you this!"_

 _She never saw his fist, roughly making contact with the side of her head. Her legs gave out, joining her in a world of darkness as stars exploded behind her eyes._

 _Faintly she heard Mistah J scream out, "This was all for a rock!?"_

 _Grinding of her bones filled her ears, threatening to snap into a million messy pieces as he began to kick her. Harley felt hollow, wishing she'd pass out from the pain. Despite her sides squealing in protest, Harley tried to fix this. To make her boyfriend understand her intentions, and kiss all of the bruises away,_ _"I-it was all for you..."_

 _"Clearly it wasn't! If you wanted me to be pleased, you wouldn't exist!"_

 _You wouldn't exist._

 _Wouldn't exist._

 _Exist..._

 _To her shameful delight, Batman seemed to be making quite an uproar downstairs. The Joker then found it important to attend to his arch foe, leaving his girlfriend to bleed on their bedroom's carpet._

 _She waited for a couple of minutes, making sure he was gone. Coughing up blood as she went, Harley crawled her way to the window and slipped outside. Spots of red were left behind, declaring her pitiful escape to everyone. Somehow she managed to get to a payphone, grateful when she found a couple of dollars in her suit pockets._

 _Smears were left on the machine as she slipped some coins inside the slot, even more so when she pressed her ear against the phone reciever._

 _Ring...ring...ring...ri-_

 _"Hello?"_

 _"C-can you pick me up?"_

* * *

"I don't understand, why don't you leave him?"

She shifted her weight at the question, fidgeting with the need to explain herself, "It's not that simple."

Ivy snorted at that, tightening the bandage around Harley's midsection. "Then please, make me understand. Because I'm getting pretty sick of having to fix you, and let's be honest, he's not good to you."

Harley sighed, she was right. But she still had no room to judge, not with her own track record.

It was just...her and Mistah J are different, destined to be. Which is exactly what she told her. Only Ivy laughed outright, fingers unconsciously digging into the cream of her skin. She did it lightly, so Harley didn't completely mind.

" _Right_. More like you're destined to keep getting hurt; do you even listen to yourself? Last time I checked, you have a dozen bruises and minor cuts, not to mention a handful of broken ribs!"

"I don't know what to tell you" Harley sighed, both her chest and heart ached. Red and green was supposed to remind you of happy times, times spent with family and friends on the holidays. For Harley, those two colours meant a decision and a new partner. But regardless, she was destined to be on the sidelines, nourished only on pain and deceit.

A bent spoon was pressed against her mouth, the metal nice and cool to the touch. "I'm good" Harley mumbled, wary of both the sight and smell of it.

"Don't be a baby, it'll speed up the progress. And I brewed it myself, each ingredient was lovingly gathered" Ivy said as she gestured to the green brew she labelled as medicine, to Harley it had more of a potential of poisoning her.

"Harley" Ivy tried again, pressing the tablespoon even closer against her mouth. The metal painfully rubbed against her teeth, feeling piercing right through her lips. Deciding she didn't want to test the patience of the friend who saved her, Harley reluctantly opened her mouth. The vile liquid stayed on the tip of her tongue for a second before she noisily swallowed it down, but it was enough. She was sure you could use it in cleaning, the miracle solution to peel paint. She expected her taste buds to come right off, a lump of gore on the floor.

Then the aftereffects kicked in, what she supposed was for the pain. Fortunately her everything didn't hurt anymore, only to be replaced with a sort of drifting feeling. "I like this" she giggled, somewhat not sure of her mouth and how to move it.

"...It has palliative properties" Ivy explained with a whisper, leaning close to press a cool hand against her forehead. Or maybe she was just hot? The sudden heat had Harley thinking about tropical islands, the perfect destination for her and Ivy. She'd love it there, getting well tuned with the nature and all of the life she could offer.

 _Red and green would be in harmony_ , Harley smiled at the thought.

Just then, Ivy tucked her into a makeshift cot. Stars flickered underneath her eyelids as she was moved, swimming in lazy pools. She reached out, fingers tangling within the locks like a needle.

"You must be really out of it" Ivy tenderly sighed, and Harley soon joined her. She felt light, free as the wind crying outside. She rubbed those scarlet threads between her right pointer finger and thumb.

"You're so pretty" she sung, words lifting on light clouds to the heavens. They moved about, on fluttering wings like delicate butterflies. She reached out to them, but they slipped between her fingers. Wanting to touch their soft bellies, she leaned upwards.

But there was Ivy's hand, turning green with new life. Like millions of tiny plants and flowers were underneath, ready to burst out. Ivy would like that, giving her being to turn into a plant. To be green.

 _Red and green..._

Before she could ask Ivy about being a plant, and how she would talk, that hand returned. It stroked and patted her hair, which was gritty from the dry flakes of blood. Ivy moved even closer to her, whispering promises in her ear. Sadly she couldn't understand her, but only that it was beautiful.

Harley began to sail on red waters on a boat, heading towards a green island out on the horizon. The sun shone bright and true, smiling at her with a wink. She waved towards it, thankful for the light and sweet weather. The sun began to laugh, a great and shrill cackle that filled her ears like honey. Harley laughed too, and the honey poured from her ears and into the red ocean.


	2. The Meaning of a Mistake: Part One

_Before her downward spiral into madness, Dr. Harleen Quinzel was considered quite a looker to her fellow colleagues._

It was a frosty autumn evening, with the scent of crackling leaves and pumpkin in the air. The cold seemed to cling to everything, and settled in the Asylum's corners. On this gloomy shift, Harleen wore a wool sweater the dusty shade of pink to escape the chill. It was a bit scratchy, but she wouldn't dare risk a sick day. Her sessions with the infamous Joker were proving to be wholesome, and they had long since shed the mere title of a doctor and her patient. Which was better left unknown, as that simple fact could ruin not only her career, but any sort of access to her blossoming relationship as well. And heaven-forbid that ever happened.

She had just gathered a steaming cup of coffee from the kitchen and was heading down a winding hallway, when she was stopped by a friendly and handsome face.

Just like herself, Dr. Franklin McArthur was a recent graduate from university, who planned on paving his own road of success with new and insightful articles. And what better place to start than the watering hole for insane super criminals.

"Dr. Quinzel" the fellow doctor greeted, still retaining the boyish charm he possessed in his younger years. Unlike the general female staff, and a handful of males, the impatient blonde wasn't as keen to have her acquaintance's company. In fact, no one seemed to catch her eye as her puddin' did. But for sheer etiquette, she offered him a polite smile in return. Still, Dr. McArthur gobbled it up, "heading downstairs are we?"

"Yes, yes I am. Are you going the same way?"

Flashing her a smile that was meant to be companionable, Dr. McArthur walked beside her, "Yes. Do you mind?"

 _Of course I do, you stubborn_ -"Not at all."

Mindful of every other second he seemed to peer at her, Harleen drew her cup closer to her person. The heat from the blue glass was blistering, but it was a welcomed distraction. Dr. McArthur wasn't an idiot, and even those with the best intention to hate him appeared to end up recalling the tall doctor with a fond smile. In worse situations, perhaps that grew to after work conversations and meetings. And finally, to love.

"I'm not sure how you do it."

Harleen paused in her thoughts to glance over, "Do what?"

"Handle them."

She gave a short bark of laughter, the sound bouncing off of the stone walls. Skin flushing in embarrassment, Dr. McArthur quickly cleared his throat, "N-not the patients, they're fine. It's the staff, er, the supervisors."

Her heart surged in empathy, and frantically she dosed the feeling. She had been lucky, paired with a senior doctor that noticed her potential and put it to good use. McArthur on the other hand, wasn't as fortunate. His supervisor was an old toad of a man that used his apprentices as mere interns to fetch expensive cigars, on their slim salary, and to proof-read his own essays. As if these young men and women weren't qualified to be at this institute. But in a fit of irony, such instructors became a great past time to analyze over their hidden obsessions and faults by the very people they insulted.

Overcome with this depraved knowledge, Harleen made a foolish mistake. She faltered in her steps, and reached out to him. Slim fingers grazed a clothed arm, and made their ascent to the workings of a broad set of shoulders. It was fleeting, but the brief touch left a disastrous impact.

He smiled at her, something that was genuine and utterly terrifying. Those deep brown eyes softened, and the beginnings of a new emotion grew there. But she knew that look, as she had often given it to one of her patients. The one that mattered, and was currently waiting for another session. The Joker.

She opened her mouth to say something, but the words were drowned and silent, and McArthur seized the chance. "Don't you have a meeting later? If you want, I can walk you there."

And that's when Harleen made her final mistake of the evening, "...I...I'd love that." Oddly enough, she didn't regret those words as much as she originally supposed.


	3. The Meaning of a Mistake: Part Two

Noisily she took another large gulp of the tar that was labelled as coffee, which was meant to soothe her frazzled nerves. However, all it did was burn the tip of her tongue.

This was the highlight to her day, these unique moments which allowed her to bask in the Joker's refreshing glow.

The heavy metal doors across from her were flung open, revealing a bony figure she referenced to as the love of her life. Cuffed as always, slowly the figure made the tedious work of walking across the room to be seated a couple of feet away.

Her eyes snapped upwards, staring at the guard by the doorway, "Thank you, Marty."

Marty gave a hearty yawn in reply, "No problem, doc. Just holler if he acts up, you know the drill."

She nodded, "Yes of course."

And with that, the doors slammed close. Leaving them to be alone and free.

With her booming reputation in the Asylum, somehow Harleen managed to convince the warden to ease up on the surveillance and security every other week. She said it made the Joker feel more comfortable to speak about his issues, and anything less would hinder the process. No cameras, and a room that was far away from the other inhabitants, and better yet, the staff. The latter which deemed that the Joker appeared to hold no interest in the petite blonde, which was far from the truth.

In reality, he could kill her at any moment, if not for the little button on her desk to alert her distress to the guards. Yet by doing this, she showed her puddin' the amount of trust she stocked in him, and simply gave him all of the power.

"Hello" she greeted breathlessly; the amount of intimacy in such a small room was suffocating. He finally looked up, and sent her a slow smile that her wanting to throw herself at him. Still, she had to be patient. To show the Joker that she waited on his beck and call, and more importantly, for him to lead.

"I heard some interesting news today."

She blinked for a second, but immediately the words poured from her mouth, "What news?"

"Nothing too important" he shrugged, crossing his legs in feigned boredom. The action had his cuffs filling the air with the sound of rattling chains, if the noise irritated him he didn't show it. Hungry for any scrap Harleen leaned forward, chest pressing hard into the wood of her desk, "But it must hold some significance to you, otherwise you wouldn't have brought it up."

"That's the thing, lamb-chop. It's just a bit of gossip, something that is sure to be false...Or I _hope_ it is." Those cold green eyes peered into her own, and a warning flashed in the back of Harleen's mind.

"I always thought that you were much too important to listen to guard's gossip, Mistah' J."

Pleased with the compliment, the smile on the Joker's face loosened, "Oh I am, but this bit struck a particular chord with me."

He climbed to his feet and took a couple of steps towards her. A foot away, Harleen's neck ached as she stared at the Joker's face. Moments like these, their height difference became apparent. Harleen nervously shifted in her chair, chewing on her bottom lip.

"There seems to be two members of our fine Asylum that are getting real close, in fact, the man of the two believes that they'll be sharing a bed soon. Do you have any idea who these two lovebirds can be, _Dr. Quinzel?_ "

"I'm afraid not" she admitted, but her heart was pounding in her ears. Since when was he interested in the love life of others?

Aware of the gears spinning in his little doctor's head, the Joker stepped around the desk to the back of her chair. Each hand was placed heavily on the frame of her seat, leather creaking as his grip tightened.

"That's strange, as it appears to be both yourself and Dr. McArthur!" He laughed, but it stuck to the foundation of the building. A deep and foreboding sound.

A shiver crawled along her spine when his hot breath brushed against her neck, delicious and angry.

"So imagine my surprise, when I hear McArthur talk about how a certain blonde was batting her pretty blues at him."

"I sw-swear I didn't, sir!" She protested, and tried to twist her body around to face him. But a cool hand seized her throat, fingers digging in with a cautious sound of disinterest.

"Oh, I know, Harls'!" The Joker hissed, "What a victim you must be, with everyone trying to munch on your little cakes."

She whimpered in relief when he released his hold on her windpipe, but those same fingers pulled her body up and away from her chair with a fistful of hair. Like a puppet, Harleen could only remain taut and expectant as the Joker kicked her rolling seat away with a crash. Seconds later, her cheek was pressed against the polished surface of her desk.

"M-Mistah' J" she started again, wincing with the burning of her scalp. Clicking his tongue in annoyance, the Joker eased up, but only a minuscule amount.

"Quiet, pet. Daddy is still talking, so wait your turn." He hotly breathed against her ear, hips a reminder as they jabbed into her own.

"Now where was I? Ah, that's right. Dr. Franklin McArthur. Tell me, sweetheart, is he a nice man? And be honest here, as what would we be without lovely _honesty_."

"He..." she started, but fear and arousal pricked at the creases of her vision. Fogging it up until it left Harleen to squint through a layer of hazy smoke, an impossible feat.

"Yes?" The Joker encouraged, free hand sliding down to the flawless cream of her thighs.

Reminded of the possible rewards, Harleen sighed before she bundled up her courage into a tight ball in her gut, "He's an idiot."

"Don't say such things for my benefit" he tsked.

Harleen ignored the warning, and continued hastily with, "It's true! The only attributes that got him this far is his face. And beauty fades with time..."

"Isn't that a bit ironic, coming from yourself?" A giggle.

She gulped down the sudden saliva that flooded her mouth. "No, because I've worked hard to be more than just a pretty face. It has helped, but what really set me apart is the ideas I embolden. Dr. McArthur may be nice to have a fling with," The grip on her hair tightened, "but he has no passion, he's never faced the world according to prejudice. Especially on gender based bias."

"Well, I've been told I have quite a lot of passion."

Pressed even harder against the desk, suddenly she became aware of the hand that slipped under her black pencil skirt. She gave a wanton moan as he stroked at her rear, causing her legs to quake with need.

"Tell me, what's your opinion on my own humble self, Dr. Quinzel?"

 **Zzzzziiiiipppppp.**

"Well, y-you care about your work." That same hand yanked her panties downwards, leaving them to pool by her knees. Her puddin' let out a thoughtful sound, a purposeful timbre. "Every moment and piece are planned, to the fine detail of all. Somethings may seem lazily done, b-but only because you want them that way."

"Leave your hands on the desk." He whispered, and there they remained.

She dare not move a muscle, nails buried in the harshness of the oak desk. After flipping her skirt over to reveal her ample bottom, he took a hold of himself until... _there_.

The feeling shook her very bones, the connection she was graced to share. He could have anyone, a god among mortals, but he picked her. And now that she had a delectable taste of him, she wouldn't share. Not if her life, nor her mother's depended on it. And she loved her mother.

With a moan she arched her body backwards, desperate to be filled until she was whole. That's when a pasty white hand sunk into her hair again, pulling with the desire to have her will in check. Satisfied when his doctor was placid and ever yearning for his touch, he started to thrust. Slow but boundless, it had Harleen gasping for air. Each swing of his hips had her questioning whether he wished to mark her innards, and if she'd live if he stopped.

"As much as I love to hear your cries, Harls'. I'm sure Marty wouldn't be as pleased, when he finds me fucking you to hell and back on the furniture. But please," he paused with a groan, "don't let me stop you."

Fighting back the moans that controlled her voice, she began once more. "N-no one can change you, you're steadily an individual. Time and...t-time again, you've proven that you're a genius."

Harleen hissed when he bit at the side of her neck, trailing until he caught up with her sweater. There he sniffed in vexation, mumbling about hating wool and its confinements.

"I've never met a man like you before, and I d-doubt I'll e-e-ever will."

"Yes" he growled into her ear, and her head was pushed further against the wood. Her temple ached with the force, but still she tried to match his thrusts with some of her own. What was a few seconds of pain, to the final picture of absolute and mind numbing bliss? Moaning once more, she struggled to stifle the sounds.

And as her climax drew near, the desk rocked like an ocean ridden boat approaching a massive wave. Sweat dripped from her forehead and blinded her, causing her to screw them shut. This seemed to only heighten the pleasure that tore at every fibre that was Harleen Quinzel.

"G-genius, virtuoso, extraordinary, gifted" she mumbled, a chant that was drawn out of her lips. It was her description of the Joker, something that captured what he naturally strove for.

And he couldn't agree more, releasing his hold on her hair in favour of a bruising grip on her hip. The other hand slid up her shirt, merrily cupping and squeezing away. It ranged from a sweet caress, to feeling like he wanted to rip her to pieces. And she loved every second of it.

With his own vibrating moans in her ears, her list grew as it stroked the Joker's ego to completion.

"Revolutionary!" She ended with a cry, and her puddin' came soon after. A groan that was rich and beautiful, it burrowed into the layers of her heart. Dwelling until it played back, again and again.

Only with a slight rustle, the Joker detached himself and casually made his way to the front of her desk. Hunching over to meet her gaze, he gave her a toothy grin. Absently he snapped the cuffs she didn't realize he took off, back into place.

"Don't worry, Harls'. Daddy will take care of that awful man of yours, they'll need to rub the smear out of the concrete for years! Hahaha!"

 **Zzziiippppp.**

Blushing as she looked away from his fly, Harleen adjusted her crooked glasses before she straightened herself. The Joker hummed as he watched the doctor pick her thrown chair from the ground, and wheel it back to its original place.

"Thanks, Mistah' J." She said with a happy sigh, grateful she had someone who cared so much about her. She took a moment to pat not only her hair down, but to righten her clothing(hiding new bruises) and to settle her tone back to a more casual lull. While her heart ached at the sweet gestures her otherwise heartless patient displayed, she pressed the button, activating the speaker. "I'm done here, Marty."

 _And so was Dr. Franklin McArthur._


	4. The Missing Boy

I was going over another case, one about a missing boy. Jim, or that's what I thought his name was. Anyway Jim disappeared, and his mother was wailing to anyone willing to listen. There was a few of those in Gotham. Sad thing is, everyone was busy with more challenging plate-loads.

And I hated to admit it, but I was in the same boat. I was just about to toss the file in the bin, ready to erase another's kid's death, when the mother walked in. Everything was done by telegraph, so I popped my bubble when she strutted through my doors.

Long legs vanished into a black an' sleek dress, the kind that looked like it was gonna explode if the wearer took another breath. And I wouldn't have minded if it did.

"Are you H. Quinzel? The private inspector?"

Her voice was like heated caramel, rippling silk and toothsome. But if you weren't careful, it'll melt your face straight off. I gulped.

Screw it, that wad had lost its flavour anyways...

"I am."

"I'm Ivy. I sent you that case about Jim, he's my son." She made her way over to one of my chairs, and plopped her shapely rear right on it. She didn't seem to mind the shithole I worked in, or the ratty suit I wore. Stained with cups of coffee, and sweat from late nights in the blistering heat.

My nose began to itch as she crossed her legs, the fabric of her dress hiking with the movement. Fetching another piece of gum from my desk, I offered the packet in her direction. With a raised brow, she shook her head. Figures.

That smooth skin of hers was tinted green, I wouldn't be surprised if it was because of the money she had. A classy dame like that was sure to have a sugar daddy somewhere, and she reeked of it.

"I know who he is."

"Good, then we have less to talk about. Are you taking up the case?"

Probably be better to be straightforward.

"Nah. I've got betta' things to do." I made a point of stretching my legs out, resting my kicks on my crummy desk. Just like everything else in my office, it smelt of guns, baby powder, and cotton candy. My favourite combination.

Ivy stood up, "Look here, Quinzel. My son's out there missing and I need him found, plus I'm willing to make it worth your while."

Any train of thought was gone when she sauntered over, soft bits emphasized until my mouth watered. Leaning over my desk, she reached a petite and green hand towards my face. I was half tempted to grab the pistol in my jacket, when she brushed a few stray hairs that escaped my bun.

" _Please_."

Well ain't I a big softy for the manipulative type, or is it the green eyes? I stared long and hard into 'em, I couldn't help but think of a darker set. The one's that belonged to my rough handling daddy, and my heart just gave out.

"Look, Red. I'll help, but I at least need a photo."

Huffing, she pulled away. Seconds later, she was reaching into the cherry red purse she shouldered. A small piece of paper was withdrawn, nicely folded and all.

I was eager to grab it from the sweet talking red-head, and better yet, open it. That's when I finally got a good look at Jim. And boy did he take after his mother. "What is he?"

" _Datura stramonium_. Or as he's better known as, Jimsonweed. Part of the Nightshade Family, he's violently toxic." She crooned, just like a proud mama hen.

"Cute. Why take him then?"

She shrugged, and I suddenly found myself wanting to kiss the cold out of her. But the thorns she had were going to be problematic.

"They're idiots. People once smoked the leaves, but only because they thought it was a antispasmodic for asthma."

"Hm, don't worry, Red." I passed the photo of the flower back to her, "I'll find your son."

* * *

And I did. Some old lady three blocks over, unknowingly picked up Jim from the local herbalist. She didn't even realize that Ivy and her switched plants, but the harm was done. After rescuing the little guy, Ivy and I broke a few of the hag's windows. That, and we stole a plate of freshly made cookies. Then we drove off into the sunset, munching away as we went.


	5. Skin

Within his lifetime, he had come across a sea of people. Each person differed in shape and size, but they all had one thing in common. Skin.

Whether it was smooth like a naive babe, or weathered with age, he had come in contact with it. Sometimes they were rotten, burnt, mutated, spotted, or plucked with jagged or neat scars. Regardless, they had skin. And then there was _hers_...

He could run his fingers across it all day, usually sticky with the white paint she wore. Rain would claw at the sky, but that was typical in Gotham. A city brewed with tall industrial grey shapes, and frothing weather. Those days the taint of white would seep away, revealing a healthy spread underneath.

It was delicious, the cream that mingled with peaches. The scars she did have were faded, from a different lifetime. Typical instances, a few fights here and there. But only because she lived in a sad household, something the elite of Gotham never knew about. Not with their safe homes, and elaborate dances. He never cared about them, preferring a few laughs with the common folk.

But he was always happy to assist the wealthy, especially if they financed his noble cause.

He was a bit disappointed, admittedly. She had such an aura around her, something that would go well with a marking of ownership. Eyes were constant, watching. It was fun to cut out a few, but the work was tiring. And he was a busy man after all, laughter was needed in Gotham's gloomy citizens. With the plant-girl's mojo, his dame was quick to heal and jump about. It was nice at first, a sort of insurance for his plans and any unwanted interjections.

But he couldn't carve his name into that skin, perfection forever marred. It was beautiful, twisting such a thing and making his own. Vivid red against muted pink, begging pink.

Maybe she could read his mind? Who knew the hidden jems that concotion gave his gal. But she strolled into the nearest den, catching the attention of everyone and no one. Soft and tender.

They craved it, but he ignored it. Ignored the distraction of the worms inching along his own skin, whispering and poking like doctors. That made him _angry_ , an infinitely dark emotion.

She then made him so _happy_ when she showed off her gift, a clown printed on her luscious ass. A tattoo.

Skin and laughter.

But what is skin without a few blotches of purple, green, or even yellow? He made sure to add onto his canvas whenever another thinks of disappearing, to make sure he has less work.

To make them know. To make _her_ know.

Smooth skin is best suited for scars, and he has plenty of those. A generous man was made from a vat of bubbles, burning chemicals.

A man with ugly skin, coupled with a girl with gorgeous skin. Between them was a road stretched with laughter.


	6. Intermission: A Definition

_Many years ago in a lecture hall, perhaps non-existent today. Created a lifetime ago._

* * *

"What is insanity?" A hand shot up, "Yes?"

"The definition of insanity is: a serious mental disorder that prevents one from living a safe and normal life."

The professor mulled these words over, heavy brows knitting together with the studious answer.

Harleen could have added on to such a statement, to heighten her already established intelligence to not only her peers, but her stern instructor. But she waited with grasping breath, curious of the progression of the mind.

"Insanity." He started up again, almost as if the bit of conversation never happened. While his brittle voice was a mere whisper in the vast room, it still carried. In fact, it positively echoed in the sheen of questions and ready minds. "That word has several meanings and contexts; lunacy, madness, derangement, and mania."

Harleen leaned in closer, and her chair creaked loudly with the weight. No one dared to raise a voice in compliant, not with the prevailing silence. "But that is what our peers have named it, but how do we as scholars classify such a word as individuals? We all crave attention, and such figures as Galileo and Tesla were deemed insane for their futuristic thoughts and ideas. So how do we define madness in our own endeavours?"

Finally she decided to speak her mind, and rose a hand in the air. A hopeful beacon.

"Yes?"

Her heart fluttered; "We can't, despite our wishes to. Maybe we never will, because it has a connection to subjection."

Those icy eyes stared into hers, prodding as she expected them to. She wouldn't have taken this course if there wasn't a passion, something that wasn't scarred with the hundreds of students that yearly passed through these halls. But he wasn't a simple teacher that relied on caffeine and cigarettes to keep on going, that is why he was her favourite. Someone who encouraged challenge and change, and Harleen was desperate for just that.

"And?"

"And..." she mumbled back, like a dying record.

"What does insanity mean to you...Quinzel was it?"

She smiled at his remembrance. By the end of this term, her very name would be engraved in his aged bones.

"For me, sir. It means creativity, and the best possible riddle."

He nodded for her to continue, walking over to his desk to find another piece of gum. It may be similar to a certain habit, but at least his mouth smelt of mint instead of smoke.

"Something that is freeing in the aspect that it holds interesting routes of option and abnormality." Foil crinkled as a stick was popped in the professor's mouth, showing the gaps from his wisdom teeth.

Harleen swallowed down the fear of rejection that came with the revealed knowledge, as it was a guarded secret of hers. Then why did she say it? Because then he'd remember her, and already it was happening.

"Hm, that is an unusual sentiment in today's society. But I'm sure you'll pick only the most stimulating clients; I'll look forward to your career's development."

He gave her a curt nod, features softening with pride and promise.

"Anyone else?" He called out, turning away from her.

* * *

"What is insanity?"

He cackled at the question, arched brow raising at her sincerity. "Aren't you supposed to know, doc? After all, I've been described that way so many times I've lost count. Haha!"

Dr. Quinzel smiled at the jab, unconsciously drumming her pen against her notebook. "It's just an inquiry, either you'll answer it or not."

"No need to get moody, _Harley_." The Joker sighed in mock worry, pouting at the spectacled woman across from him. "Tell ya' what, I'll answer but only if you do."

"Alright." She gnawed on the inside of her cheek, teeth picking at the tender flesh. "Innovation in a world of the lame."

The Joker threw his head back, howling with laughter. The sound had a strange affect on her, and giggles were soon bubbling forth from her lips. "Hahaha! Oh, I _like_ you!" Tossing her a contagious grin, green bore into blue. "A real keeper! Well, I'm as original as they get!"

"I've noticed." She mumbled under her breath, but still he heard. And that smile stretched across his face, until she could only think of those rows of pearls.

"Insanity is simple, it's a shortcut."

"A shortcut?"

"Hm, that's where all of the real fun begins, sweetheart." His eyes roamed her figure up and down "And you look like a girl that knows how to have fun, but you're a blonde. So it makes perfect sense."

"...You're right as always... _sir._ "


End file.
